Peace On Earth, Goodwill To Men
by MrsBeilschmidt3
Summary: It's World War II, and Steve Rodgers makes an unexpected friend in a sick German soldier named Ludwig Beilschmidt. He wasn't expecting to meet him again seventy years later, both of them still the same age.
1. Chapter 1

From what he'd learned, Germans were Nazis. Nazis hated Jews and American freedom. He wasn't sure that all Nazis believed the way Hitler did, but he was sure of one thing. The young man at the head of the Axis soldiers he now faced was fighting on the opposite side. And the American had a duty to all the Allied soldiers he was at the head of. Guns were raised, and the young German's eyes shone behind the sights of his weapon. But the American noticed a little glint reflecting off them, which could have been the sun but might very well have been a tear. And in the moment he thought that this man was not a Nazi. He was a soldier defending his country, same as him, only the German was oppressed by a tyrannical ruler.

But then the German soldier put his finger to the trigger, and the American knew that he had to shoot first if he wanted to live to defend his comrades and his country. And so, quick as a whip, he pulled the trigger.

-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-

Feliciano Vargas, known to the Board of Nations as Italy, sniffled as a tear rolled from a big brown eye and down his soft cheek. He didn't have many bandages left, so he was careful to use all he had to wrap his friend's chest. He hadn't changed Germany's bandage in quite a while, and the wound was infected despite his efforts to treat it.

"Feliciano…" Ludwig Beilschmidt, otherwise known as Germany, swallowed and grimaced as the boy applied a stinging ointment to his chest. "What is our latest word from Kiku? Has he found food yet?"

"No," Italy sighed as he finished tending to his friend's wound. He wrung out a cloth over a bowl and laid it on Germany's forehead. Their blonde leader had developed a fever that reached 40° Celsius last they'd checked, and hadn't gone down from there.

"You have to eat, Feli," Germany said, overlooking his own condition. "Don't worry, I'll find you food if it's the…"

"Don't say it!" Italy cried, knowing Germany intended to finish his sentence with "last thing I do". Germany reached up and tousled his little friend's auburn hair with the one bouncy curl that stuck out stubbornly. He remembered when he first met the sensitive country during the first World War, hiding in a box of tomatoes. Germany had captured him at the time, but Italy was now his ally. Being nations, they could live hundreds, even thousands of years, and Feliciano was as much of an innocent youth now as he was then. Germany felt like a big brother to the vulnerable adolescent, and he hated to think of him being all alone.

Kiku Honda returned to the camp, his black hair damp with sweat. Japan, he was called amongst those who understood. Together, the three made the Axis powers. Germany looked up at him with raised eyebrows, and the Asian nation bowed before saying, "I have no food with me, but there is an allied camp nearby, just over a hill to the right and beyond a little grove of trees."

"Brilliant," Germany murmuring, closing his eyes, "such a stereotypical place for a camp that it is the last place I would have checked." He struggled to sit up, wincing in pain, and Italy gently pushed him back down, dabbing the sweat off his face with the cloth.

"Ve, don't hurt yourself worse, Germany," Italy begged. "I can't lose you." He curled up into a ball on the ground and slowly fell asleep at Germany's side, ready should his friend need him.

It was a cool night, and though Germany normally hated the sound of crickets, he was glad for them now because they provided some sound to what otherwise would have been a haunting silence. Japan held a flashlight and knelt beside the wounded soldier, studying his face. Ludwig was always pale, but now his skin was nearly translucent, his eyes glassy with fever. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and his breaths were shallow and labored. He was so tragically young to die.

Japan was raised to sense the mood and refrain from speaking, and now he sensed that refraining from speaking was exactly what this mood called for. He waited for Germany to say something instead, and he did. "Japan," he croaked, "take care of Italy for me."

Japan didn't want Germany to see the tears forming in his eyes, so he lowered his head. "Hai, Mister Germany." He asked if Germany needed anything, and when the blonde nation simply shook his head, he curled up like Italy and fell into an uneasy slumber, the flashlight still on and rolling to a stop by his side.

When Germany saw that both his comrades were asleep, he took the flashlight and tried to recall what Japan had said regarding the Allied camp's location. Over a hill to the right and just beyond a little grove of trees. His chest wound prevented him from being able to do the soldier's crawl, so he got on his hands and knees to try his hardest to get some food.

He took one last look at Italy and couldn't help but smile. The younger nation's skin was still soft and supple as a newborns, and he looked like a little cherubs in his sleep. Germany pushed Italy's hair out of his face and laid a hand on his brow, murmuring, "Sleep well, Feliciano. You will have food in the morning." And then, with as much strength as he could muster while injured and feverish, he crawled his way out of the Axis camp.


	2. Chapter 2

Peace On Earth Goodwill To Men 2

"I heard a noise, dammit!"

Steve Rogers sighed heavily. Sleep was given in small doses during wartime, and Steve took as much as he could. But his friend Bucky Barnes took the soldier's responsibility to stay alert at all times just a little too seriously. Just last night he'd wasted valuable ammunition on a spider that had tickled his arm. "Bucky," he groaned, "it was probably a bird or something."

"No," Bucky insisted, standing up and loading his gun in case he needed to use it, "birds chirp in the morning, to be annoying."

" _You're_ annoying."

"Well, I'm going out to check!"

Steve figured he might as well go with Bucky in case his friend needed him. To be safe, he figured he should take Bucky's worry seriously. Better safe than sorry, he supposed. He reached down and grabbed his primary weapon, a red-and-white striped shield that had proved very effective in war. Captain America, the nation's hero. He wondered how many knew the scrawny, sickly kid he was in his past. The super-soldier serum was the only reason he was in the Army now.

Steve followed Bucky to the edge of the camp and nearly tripped when Bucky stopped short in front of him. Steve looked down and gasped. A young man with blonde hair lay passed out on his stomach, a gun in the holster on his belt and a flashlight in his right hand. Bucky bent down and held up a silver chain that the soldier wore around his neck. Steve shone a light on it and winced. The Iron Cross. He studied the uniform. This man was German.

Bucky rolled the German soldier onto his back, causing a little hiss of pain to escape the unconscious man's lips. The soldier was bandaged around the chest beneath his coat, and Bucky gasped. "It's the one you shot, Steve. Guess he lived and he was trying to get into our camp."

Steve knelt down and laid a hand on the German's sweaty forehead. "He's burning up," he whispered. He laid his shield down so he could open the canteen he always carried with him. He raised the rim to the soldier's lips and made him drink, using his sleeve to wipe the water that rolled down the sides of his face. "Come on, let's get him to our camp."

"Steve, he's a Nazi!" Bucky's eyes widened. "Surely you don't plan to take care of this guy!"

"He's a German," Steve corrected his friend, "and what do you expect me to do, leave him here to die?"

"Well… yes," Bucky answered frankly. "But let me guess, you're going to be the Good Samaritan and nurse this kraut back to health so he can kill us all."

Steve glared at Bucky. He understood where his friend's fear was coming from, but he also couldn't stand to leave the other man there, alone and vulnerable and wounded, when he could help him. "Yes, Bucky, yes I am. And don't use the term 'kraut'."

-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-

"Well, on the bright side, at least he's our prisoner."

"If he weren't sick and injured he'd kill us all!"

"He doesn't look that evil to me."

"Why are you saving him, Steve?"

"He needs medical attention and I'm here to provide it."

"What if he's only pretending to be asleep and he's really about to shoot us?"

"Relax, Francis, I took away his gun."

So many voices… Germany moaned as he tried to escape the hot, hazy hell he was in. Where was Feliciano? Where was Kiku? Why did none of the voices sound like Axis soldiers? He tried to speak but his voice was too weak. He felt a cool, thin object being removed from under his tongue and someone murmured something to the effect of "that's not good," and then a moment later a wet cloth was placed on his forehead, which felt remarkably refreshing. He struggled to open his eyes but when he did the light that surrounded him was painfully blinding and he whimpered and squeezed them shut.

"It's all right, we're not going to hurt you." This voice was soothing, an English accent. Strong but unmistakably female… the only female voice around him. He'd never had a mother that he could remember, but he thought that if he did, she would sound like a German version of this woman.

Another voice, one Germany knew all too well, spoke up next. "That is, unless you try anything." Germany would recognize this other English accent, belonging to one Arthur Kirkland, anywhere. He winced. He and "England" weren't exactly on the best of terms right now.

Finally, it occurred to Germany where he was. He was in the Allies' camp. He remembered now; he'd snuck off to get food, enough to feed Italy and Japan and hopefully himself if there was any left over. Of course, his fever was making him nauseous so he really wasn't hungry even though he hadn't eaten in about a week.

Slowly Germany opened his eyes and let them adjust to the light. The Allies he already knew were there: Francis Bonnefoy (France), Alfred F. Jones (America), Ivan Braginski (Russia), Yao Wang (China), some guy who looked like America, and, of course, Arthur. Then there were a few others, two young men, one blonde and blue-eyed and the other with brown hair and a darker complexion. The woman with the English accent was tall and slender with wavy dark hair. She introduced herself as Peggy Carter and her tough capability mixed with a gentle, maternal side reminded Germany of his friend Hungary.

"Um… hey, man," America said awkwardly after a long silence. "Well, we found you last night all sick and dying, and now you're kind of our prisoner. No hard feelings, right?"

Germany pinched the bridge of his nose to stifle an oncoming headache. "Sure," he said uncertainly. "But why… why didn't one of you kill me?"

Steve sighed as he looked down at the young man on the cot. He fingered the Iron Cross on his necklace, seemingly a nervous habit, and Steve remembered the sad look in his eyes from behind the gun. He now firmly believed that this man was not a Nazi. "I couldn't leave you to die," he told him. "Besides, you've been murmuring in your sleep about getting food to some kid named Feliciano, and-"

He was cut off by another American entering the camp, with a gun to the back of another German, this one hale and walking. "Is this a prisoner, Stark?"

The man called Stark nodded and shoved the German forward. "Caught him prowling about. I took his gun." He handed the German's weapon to Steve, who nodded and made sure the weapon was no longer loaded so there would be no accidents. This German was more outspoken and rambunctious than Ludwig. "I was looking for my little brother, you-" He stopped and gasped when he saw Germany. Germany would know this man's blonde-haired, brown-eyed face anywhere. He couldn't stop the tear that formed in his eye. "Gilbert…" he croaked, and his older brother flung his arms around him.

(That's all for Chapter 2! Chapter 3 shall soon be in the works! By the way, there's a reason for Prussia not looking albino right now, you'll find out about that later. )


	3. Chapter 3

Gilbert Beilschmidt, the nation of Prussia, stared down at the figure on the cot. Germany had become strong and independent, but now in his weakened condition those blue eyes looked at him the same way they had that night Prussia had found him. Germany claimed he didn't remember any of his childhood up until that point, and the first thing he could recall was the silly, crooked smile and the bird that flew around the older nation's head as he bent down to pick him up.

"Who hurt him?!" Prussia demanded, brushing the sweaty blonde locks off his brother's face.

Steve stepped forward. "I did."

Prussia's face darkened with rage and Stark held him back so he couldn't do anything to harm Steve. Germany tapped on his arm and he looked down. "Bruder… don't be angry with him. He also saved my life. He brought me here when he could have left me to die."

Prussia paused for a moment; he was fiercely protective over the nation he'd found as a child in the snow. But Germany did not lie about such matters, so Prussia decided that he could refrain from killing Steve for now. "Danke," he told him, "danke for saving mein bruder." Steve nodded solemnly, Stark still keeping a close watch on Prussia.

"Gil…" Germany coughed and held his chest. "Feli and Kiku are still at the camp. They haven't eaten in so long…"

Prussia would never say this aloud, for it sounded extremely insensitive, but with his brother sick and injured he had a hard time thinking about other people in need. "Neither have you," he pointed out.

"I'm not hungry."

"Don't be immature, West," Prussia insisted, using his nickname for Germany, "you're going to eat something. You want to live, don't you?"

The response he got shattered him. Germany merely shrugged, not in an indecisive manner but in one that showed that he didn't really care. He turned on his side so no one would watch him, but Prussia saw the saltwater hit the cot. Prussia was older than Germany, he had lived through several wars, he had been a pirate with Spain and England, he was there when England and France fought for custody over America. But World War I was Germany's first, and back then he wasn't under the reign of Hitler. Now Germany had seen things he'd never recover from. He had seen the tyranny of his nation's own ruler. He had seen blood and death and morning. He had seen what he thought was a skeleton but realized was a living child. He had seen the Holocaust.

"West—" Tears formed in Prussia's eyes, and no one knew what to say. Peggy handed him a bit of leftover soup from the little meal the Allies had over a fire, and Prussia turned Germany's face toward him, spooning the warm broth into his mouth. "West, you're gonna live, dammit, you hear me, bruder?" Germany choked a little, gagging on the soup, but Prussia got most of it down him and set it aside.

Bucky watched from a distance in shock. They were right. These men weren't Nazis. They were people just like him, people who loved and fought and cried, same as he did. He looked at Steve, who nodded, and bent down next to Germany's cot. "Ludwig Beilschmidt," he said softly, swallowing a painful lump in his throat, "you are a good man. You and the majority of your people are not responsible for the actions of Hitler. Please, Ludwig, stay with us. And we'll get food to your friends, I promise."

Slowly Germany turned his head and blinked. "Danke," he whispered, trying to hide the tears that welled in his eyes. He was quiet for a moment, and then something occurred to him. He hadn't considered the date for a while, but he realized that tonight was December 24th.

 _Some Christmas Eve,_ he thought cynically. The whole world was at war. The stench of death was all around them. People were afraid, alone, and hungry. He sighed, thinking about an English Christmas song that seemed so true to him now… "And in despair I hung my head… 'There is no peace on earth', I said. For hate is strong, and mocks the song of peace on earth, goodwill to men."

But tonight, perhaps just tonight, couldn't things be different? Didn't the Americans celebrate Christmas same as the Germans did. He was quiet for a moment, and then he took something out of his pocket. He folded it up in his fist and handed it to Steve. It was identical to the one he wore on his necklace.

"This is the Iron Cross," he said sheepishly. "I- I know it's German, but it's all I have to give you. You saved my life, and it _is_ a medal of bravery." He paused for a moment and shyly added, "Merry Christmas, Captain America."

No one said a word for a very long time. Steve took the little cross and studied it. The others watched with tears in their eyes. "Thank you," Steve finally said, and fumbled around in his own pocket. He pulled out a little golden star and placed it in Germany's sweaty palm. "In America, this is a medal of valor. Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Beilschmidt. I hope for one night, our two nations can be at peace."

Germany was quiet for a minute, and then, for the first time since the war began, his eyes brightened with a smile. "Ja," he agreed, "danke."

After a moment America stood up, his glasses fogged with tears. "If you don't mind, sir," he said to Steve, "I have some left over rations, and I heard there's a couple of folks in Germany's camp who could really use some food."

Steve smiled and nodded his approval, and so did Germany. "Danke, Alfred." Prussia sat down beside Germany on the cot and began softly humming. Germany recognized the tune and hummed along. _"Stille nacht, Heilige nacht… Alles schlaft, einsam wacht…"_

Bucky knew this song. He knew it in English, of course, but he'd forgotten that it was a German who wrote it. He joined in, "Round yon virgin, mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild." And then everybody sang along, so that the whole Allied camp was filled with singing soldiers from opposite sides of the war, some in English and some in German, all at peace with one another for one holy night. "Sleep in heavenly peace…" _"Schlafe in himmlischer Ruhe…"_

That night was not what one might expect from a war camp. Even Feli and Kiku heard it from where they were, and were amazed by what had transpired amongst an American and a German that wartime Christmas Eve. Steve looked down beside Germany's cot, where there was an American Red Cross bag, and he thought that the red cross didn't look all that different from Germany's iron one.

To be continued…


	4. Chapter 4

He stared through the sheen of ice at the man within, the man he recognized, the man who was said to have died seventy years ago when his plane crashed. Now he understood. The man who saved his little brother in the war was alive, still the same age, just like he was.

He felt the cold barrel of the gun pressed against his back and the voice behind him hissed in his ear. "You will tell no one, understand?"

The red eyes stared back at the man holding the weapon, completely jaded and seeming to show no emotion whatsoever. _"Ja, commandant…_ I understand." And with that, they began to thaw the ninety-year-old American legend.

-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-

 _He was so thin that every bone in his body was visible, veins bulging beneath his cracked skin. He was led like the others in a solemn march towards his final moments, but his eyes showed that he welcomed the end to his torment. And the young German soldier, Hitler's ice-cold fingers digging into his shoulders to keep him in place, was powerless to stop it._

Sweat poured down his forehead in icy torrents, plastering his hair to his face. He woke up shaking, and he saw a little light and heard the door creak open. Feliciano stood at the entrance to his friend's bedroom, holding a little read flashlight. "Germany…ve… I heard you shouting in your sleep. Were you having nightmares again?"

Germany nodded slowly, swallowing so that Italy would not see him cry. "I was dreaming about the war," he sniffled, sitting up in bed. He checked the clock and sighed. It was 3 AM, but he wished it was time to wake up because night was when his mental anguish peaked. If Prussia were here, he would let him see his tears, let him comfort him like he did when Germany was a child. There wasn't a day that went by that he didn't miss his brother. In 1947, the nation of Prussia was dissolved, and Germany's childhood guardian, caretaker, and most importantly big brother, was gone. At least he took comfort in visiting the place where they grew up, but then the wall went up in Berlin. It had fallen since then, but it would never be the same.

"You… you got a call." Italy picked up Germany's phone from his nightstand and showed him the missed notification. "I didn't know who it was, though, and I didn't want to wake you. Ve… it's been a while since you got some sleep." He tried to lay Germany back down and tuck in the sheets for him, but the blonde nation held up a hand.

"Don't fuss over me, Italy," he sighed, unlocking his phone. Ever since the events following the war and its aftermath and Prussia's death, Germany had been diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and though he was still the adult and the working one, the roles had reversed somewhat, Italy now doing a lot of the caring for him. He wished he could be as happy-go-lucky and innocent as Italy, but that time in his life had died along with his older brother and six million Jews.

Even now, in the twenty-first century, he wasn't over it, because, in retrospect, considering that he was a nation, it was a much shorter time for him. And for Italy, too- the boy had just enrolled in a junior high. The transition from record players to iPhones was no time at all for the two of them. And he enjoyed having an interruption from this. Italy insisted that Germany needed rest, but Germany hated sleeping anymore.

Italy sat on the bed and watched Germany, who redialed the number on the Caller ID and spoke into the device when the other line picked up. "Hallo? This is Ludwig Beilschmidt. You called?"

"Hello, Mr. Beilschmidt," said a deep voice on the other end. "I'm Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD and leader of the Avengers. You don't know me, but I've got a couple of guys here who say they know you."

-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel-Hetalia-Marvel—

The plane ride to New York was long and cold, and Italy slept peacefully against Germany's shoulder. Germany would have looked out the window, but all he could see was clouds and the white, frosty world below. When they arrived at the JFK International Airport, a tall black man in a trenchcoat met them at the gate. He wore a patch over his left eye, and Italy found him a little intimidating. "Mr. Beilschmidt," he said.

"Herr Fury."

They took a taxi to SHIELD headquarters. Italy was mesmerized by all the flashy Christmas decorations sparkling across New York, but Germany was quiet for the entire ride, lost in thought. He knew about the Avengers, about Thor, Iron Man, the Black Widow, the Hulk, and Hawkeye. America talked about them all the time during world meetings, and how Thor was "totally proof that aliens exist, dude". But why would they want to meet him?

"We got a new addition to our team," Fury said as the car pulled to a stop. The cab driver was an undercover agent, so the private affairs of SHIELD could be freely spoken about in the vehicle. Fury added, "And a prisoner. They claim to know you…from the Second World War. They should be very old, but then again, so should you." He led Germany and Italy into the building and through a rat maze of doors, halls, and elevators. They arrived at the prison ward, and Fury called, "Prisoner 269a!"

A man in the SHIELD prisoner uniform looked at Germany, Italy, and Nick Fury through an indestructible glass wall. Germany gasped. The face that stared back at him had eyes the color of rubies and hair white as snow despite the young appearance, but he'd still know it anywhere. "Mein gott," he murmured, staring wide-eyed at Prussia, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. "You're alive! But… but what happened to you?"


	5. Chapter 5

The ruby red eyes stared into the baby blue ones as Prussia studied his younger brother. Germany looked as he had last Prussia had seen him, but Prussia could see his brother's inward scars. The truth was, the younger of the Beilschmidt brothers was also the less emotionally hardened one, by far. Though he tried to be stoic and harsh, Germany took everything hard. Prussia, however, had almost forgotten what it was like to feel anything at all. The last time he had left a deep scar in his chest that he'd inflicted himself in an effort to put an end to his pain. But then _they_ had interfered.

He figured he should send Italy away before he explained who They were. A tall, slim woman dressed in black arrived, her face framed with dark red hair and a pistol at her side. Natasha Romanov was a woman much like the Beilschmidt brothers, her past hidden and inaccessible to others, her demeanor tough and serious. But "the Black Widow" also had a smile for the wonderstruck young Italian, and told him she'd show him around if he followed her. When they left Prussia began his testimony, Fury sitting in the background and listening intently.

Prussia paced around the cell as he spoke, his moves swift, sharp and calculated as if he was doing something much more purposeful than walking around in circles. He still had the pride to keep his chin up, and despite the dissolution of his homeland, he still wore the emblem of the black eagle on his deep blue shirt under the prisoner's coat. He began in a low voice, explaining what happen in the wake of his supposed death.

"I was told that I was no longer the awesome nation of Prussia, but merely East Germany now. But no, that was not how they put it. Everyone said it as though there was no longer my little brother, my Germany. I was still a nation and he was gone. What did I have to live for then? I watched as my glorious black eagle was burned, shot at, taken down, on every flag that bore my symbol. And where was mein baby bruder? Nowhere to be found, they said. He'd lost the war, and the way they put it, that meant he was gone. So I went off alone, and I allowed myself to feel for the last time."

Memories of the dark days ahead came flooding back as he remembered everything he had known and loved crumbling into ruins. He remembered pulling the trigger, expecting to leave this world within the next few moments. But he had woken up in some sort of infirmary, all sorts of machines surrounding him and wires hooked up to his body. He had tried to scream, but found he had no voice. He lost consciousness again, waking up this time strapped to a chair.

A man spoke to him in his native language, showing him a symbol of a Hydra, the mythical creature with eight heads. "Cut off one head and two more will take its place. Did you think a nation could be killed so easily, oh awesome and mighty Prussia?" He could still remember the mocking tone. The man continued, "It's been quite some time since that war, but if you haven't died don't you think your baby brother did too? Ah, but you Beilschmidts are dangerous, we can't have the two of you working together. So we had Berlin put up a convenient little wall."

Prussia struggled against his bonds, biting at the gag they had placed in his mouth, to no avail. Outside a window, from far away he could make out a wall so long he couldn't tell where it began and where it ended. The voice continued, "You work for us now, or your precious little Germany _will_ be gone forever. You see, Gilbert Beilschmidt, you are our little experiment." The gloved hand shoved a mirror in front of Prussia's face, revealing the same features otherwise, but his blonde hair now white and his brown eyes now red. That was what the wires were for, they had changed him. They had made him theirs.

So when Prussia found Captain America in the ice, he could not tell anyone outside of Hydra, or it would mean Germany's life. But when the super soldier recovered he escaped and took Prussia prisoner. As Prussia explained this, Germany hung his head and began to weep softly. "You… you went through all of this to protect me."

Just when Prussia thought he'd finally escaped that hell known as emotions, he felt a painful lump swell in his throat. He could not bear to see Germany cry. It brought him back to another time and place, on a snowy night back home, when a little golden-haired boy looked up at him with teary blue eyes. He'd bent down to pick the child up, and asked for his name. The boy stared at him in bewilderment, and Prussia understood the sad truth: the child didn't _have_ a name.

He called him Germany, after his father Germania. Now so much later, his brother stood across from him with the same look in his eyes. And then turned to Nick Fury. "You heard mein bruder's story. Let him go now."

To be honest, Fury was touched by the tale. But should he truly believe it? Nations, as people? "I need proof," he said.

"Then I'd like to present it, sir." b

Steve Rogers walked into the hall, holding an Iron Cross in his hand. "Gilbert Beilschmidt's brother, the one he had to protect by working for Hydra, gave me this during the war," he explained.

Germany reached into his pocket and pulled out the golden star. "And Captain Rogers gave me this in return," he added.

Nick Fury looked from one man to the other. He'd heard stories about the night that exchange of medals was made. "Proof enough," he finally decided. "Gilbert Beilschmidt is free to go."


	6. Chapter 6

Germany and Prussia spent a long time just talking, considering what they'd do now that they found each other. Germany assured his brother that he could live with him, since Prussia had nowhere else to go. Besides, he offered to help take care of Italy. The truth was, he wanted to take care of his little brother again. He still felt the need to make sure Germany was all right, and he wondered, since Italy was so innocent and vulnerable, who took care of Germany when he was sick? Who comforted him when he was down? Who made sure he relaxed and didn't overwork himself? He needed Prussia.

They were supposed to head back to Berlin when agent Phil Coulson reported that all the flights out of the nation were closed due to dangerous snowstorms. It was going to be one of the coldest winters New York had ever seen. Merely road travel was very risky due to the icy conditions. And so the three nations sat in Schwarna eating with the Avengers when they should have been back home.

"What do we do now?" Germany sighed, sipping on a mug of coffee. Even inside it was chilly, and the tops of his ears were flushed red, as well as his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Natasha thought his blushing was really cute, but she kept it to herself.

"I wouldn't recommend travel in this weather, Mr. Beilschmidt," Fury told him.

Steve took a sip of his hot chocolate and smiled, observing that even at SHIELD they were well decorated for Christmas, with wreaths and bells and Christmas trees sparkling with ornaments. "You could stay here for Christmas, you know."

"Ve, Christmas!" Italy sang, dancing around the room. "I can't wait for Christmas, we'll have so much fun!"

Natasha smiled. "You know, the city is beautiful this time of year, Feliciano," she told him, taking his hand and pointing out the window. There was a giant Christmas tree in Times Square, illuminated up by thousands of tiny lights of different colors. Snowflakes came fluttering to the ground like in a movie, and the young Italian's eyes shone with delight.

And for the first time in a painfully long period of months, Germany broke into a genuine smile. Everything, for once, was right with the world, just like that same night seventy years ago in the Allied prison camp. He touched the golden American star Captain America had given him and looked over at his friend to see that he was doing the same with the Iron Cross. His big brother was with him, safe and sound, and Natasha Romanov looked back at him and smiled, causing his cheeks to heat up.

He remembered Christmas as a child, Prussia holding him up to the window, his chubby little child hands making imprints on the glass as he stared at the December world in innocent wonder. "Look at that, West," Prussia would say, and point out decorations that would make his brother gasp in delight, like a little tree across for them that was always decorated with lit-up toys.

Now as Natasha showed Italy around, Germany saw the same childlike wonderment in his friend's brown eyes. Italy, so innocent, so caring, so pure and blissfully unaware. _"I heard the bells on Christmas day, their old familiar carols play... And loud and sweet their songs repeat: 'Peace on earth, goodwill to men'."_ And Germany believed in such a thing for the first time since that Christmas Eve seventy years ago. And looking at Italy, awestruck and beaming, he thought he was staring at the personification of peace on earth and goodwill to men.


End file.
